Page 8 of Indigo Deception
It's three in the morning, but my mind won't shut down. Every time I close my eyes, all I see are numbers. Transactions. Shell corporations. And behind it all, the sharp green eyes of Angelo Bellanti.
The Golden Prince.
My target.
My fingers fly across my laptop, going through the copies of everything I've accessed so far in my first week at Bellanti Holdings. Angelo gave me unprecedented access to their Asia-Pacific operations, a level of trust that would make me laugh if I weren't so damn stressed about it.
"Trust," I snort, rubbing my tired eyes. "He doesn't trust anyone. He's testing me."
I've spent fifteen hours a day parsing through their so-called "legitimate" businesses. On the surface, everything is impeccable. Angelo Bellanti might be arrogant, might be a notorious playboy, but his financial genius is undeniable.
The way he's structured their global holdings—layering companies within companies, creating great tax efficiencies that skirt regulations without quite breaking them—it's brilliant. Infuriating, but brilliant.
I take a sip of cold coffee and pull up the folder containing the surveillance software I need to install. My fingers glide over my laptop, checking through once again.
I'll need to find the perfect moment to gain access to his systems—when his guard is down. And with a man like Angelo Bellanti, those moments are rare.
But I'll find a way. This is what I came here to do…
"These projections seem low for Q3." I tap my pen against the spreadsheet I've been analyzing for the past three hours. Across the conference table, Angelo looks up from his phone, one perfect eyebrow arched. The afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting his dark hair.
"Most consultants wouldn't question my numbers, Little Auditor." His lips curve into that infuriating smirk. "They'd be too busy trying to impress me."
I feel my jaw tighten at the nickname. I hate it. I hate the way he says it—like he's discovered some private joke only he understands. I hate how it makes me feel small when I'm trying to establish professional authority.
The "little" part especially irks me—I worked too hard to be diminished by anyone, even someone as powerful as Angelo Bellanti. And every time he says it with that smirk, I'm reminded of how precarious my cover story is.
Also, the fact that my cover is three years older than him isn’t lost on me.
"I'm not most consultants." I tap each of my fingers in succession, counting off my points. "Your shipping margins are too thin given fuel cost projections. Your labor estimates don't account for the new regulations in Singapore. And these tax calculations are aggressive even for a company with your resources."
I expect him to dismiss me. Instead, something like respect flickers across his face before he leans forward, the movement causing his expensive cologne to drift across the table. It's subtle—sandalwood and something darker I can't place.
"Fix it then."
“On it.”
I work through lunch and into the evening. The office empties gradually, until it's just us and the cleaning staff. I'm so focused I barelynotice when Angelo orders dinner until a container of what smells like Italian pasta appears at my desk.
"Eat," he commands, already twirling pasta onto his own fork. "I can't have my new risk consultant passing out from hunger."
I should say no, but I can feel my stomach growling in hunger, and one meal wouldn't hurt, right? So, I take a bite and nearly moan at the taste.
"Good, right?" He's watching me too closely. "From a little place two streets away. The owner's son got into some trouble a few years back. I helped."
"You helped," I repeat, keeping my face neutral while mentally filing this information away. "How generous."
His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm not sure I like that tone, Ms. Bennett."
I shrug. “I'm not sure what you’re talking about, Mr. Bellanti.”
"Angelo," he corrects for the fifth time this week. "And don't give me that bullshit professional distance. You've spent six days dissecting my company's financials. I think we're past formalities."
I don't respond, focusing instead on reorganizing his Asia-Pacific spreadsheets into something that won't trigger immediate IRS scrutiny.
An email notification pings on his laptop. I glance up to see his expression harden as he reads it.
"Problem?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
